


Formido Pennywise

by xammx



Series: Skarsgård Shots, Smut & Drabbles [4]
Category: Bill Skarsgard - Fandom, IT (2017), IT (2017) RPF, IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Blood, Burglary, Childhood Memories, Death, F/M, Flashbacks, Good Pennywise (IT), Home Invasion, Love, Mild Gore, Minor Character Death, Not Really Character Death, Other, Pennywise (IT) Lives, Possessive Pennywise (IT), Protectiveness, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 23:31:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19365895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xammx/pseuds/xammx
Summary: A home invasion brings you face to face with the Dancing Clown you met twenty-seven years ago.It’s the last thing you thought would ever save you.Pennywise (IT) x Reader





	Formido Pennywise

Glowing amber eyes watched you as you slept. A mixture of uncomfortable emotions assailed it. Disdain. Hunger. Yearning. Revulsion. Possession. You stirred a moment and so did its stomach. You smelt sweet, like sandal powder and jasmine, making its mouth water instantaneously. It wondered what your soft, delicate skin would feel like between its teeth as it gnashed away at your body. Delicious, no doubt. The more pure, the better the taste, and you were as virtuous as they came. You always were. One step forward and the old hardwood floor sounded like an alarm, the rusty nails shrieking like tortured, lost souls. 

Your eyes shot open to darkness. You listened, trying to understand why you awoke so suddenly. You glanced at the glowing green numbers of the bedside clock: 2:51 AM. 

You sighed. Recently it was getting harder to sleep through the night and you weren’t sure at all why. You had tried everything from warm milk to sleeping pills prescribed to you by your doctor, but to no avail. You tossed back your covers, swinging your legs over the edge of your bed and letting your bare feet greet the carpeted floor. You were parched and sure that you would not be getting back to sleep anytime soon. 

You reached the top of the stairs when you heard a noise. Loud. You knew all the sounds the house made, the pipes clanking in winter, the hollow groan of the attic during a big storm. This was different. You swallowed and tried your best to control your increasing heart rate. Maybe it was all in your head. 

You padded down the stairs quietly, knowing exactly where to step to avoid creaking floorboards, just in case. You had lived in this house all your life, raised solely by your father and continued to live in it well after his passing. You never had the heart to sell your childhood home, always finding yourself back in Derry, Maine despite travelling all over the world for work. 

You reached the bottom of the stairs and crept down the hall, past the kitchen. At the end of the hall, light leaked from the cracked doorway, the little room you used as an office. A flicker of shadow. The rustling sound of somebody searching. 

Your breath immediately caught in your throat and a deep, cold pit of fear starting forming in your stomach. What were you supposed to do? _Run_. The word screamed at you in your head. You mentally scrolled through your options. Back away, find a phone, call the cops. And how long would that take? It couldn’t be anyone you knew, could it? It had to be an intruder. Your curiosity got the best of you and you crept silently to the door, peeking inside. 

A man in black. A ski mask. All the desk drawers pulled open. He spun sharply and immediately locked eyes with you, your hand shooting up to cover your mouth when you realized your breath came out in a loud gasp. Fuck. 

“Well, look who’s awake,” he cooed, and that's when you noticed the knife with a six-inch blade in his hand. Your body froze in place, your eyes desperately looking around the room for something to defend yourself with. He followed your gaze, which landed on the poker perched beside the fireplace. If you were fast enough, you could reach it. _If._

With adrenaline snapping through you, you launched yourself towards the fire iron. Your fingers nearly grazed the tip of it as he pulled you back, the intruder catching you in his arms, his large gloved hand pressed against your mouth to muffle your screams. You thrashed your body against him, kicking your legs behind you as he hauled you off the floor and dragged you out of the office. 

“Not another fucking sound, bitch.” His voice warned, the blade of the cold knife suddenly pressed against your throat. You closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow as you struggled to grasp the reality of the situation. A robbery? Break-ins rarely happened in Derry, if ever. This person wanted something specific, or perhaps someone. Your head spun. 

He had pulled you into the kitchen, using his leg to kick out a chair from the breakfast table. 

“I’m going to take my hand away from your mouth now, but if you make a fucking peep, I’ll gut you like a turkey, got it?” he warned you, sliding the tip of the knife slowly across your neck. “Do you fucking understand, yes or no?”

You nodded as much as you dared.

His hand moved away from your mouth and slid down your body as his other hand kept the knife against your throat. You swallowed the acrid combination of revulsion and bile that rose in your throat as his hand continued its descent. If you could distract him, even for a second, could you possibly make it to the door and cry for help?

“Take what you want. Just let me go, please.” You weren’t sure how to reason with a criminal. He was clearly looking for something when you caught him; you just weren’t sure of what. 

“You really have no idea what your pops did for a living in Derry, huh?” he sneered, his hand tightening painfully around your waist, “I guess daddy shouldn’t have left you unattended. A pretty little thing like you.” 

Your breath picked up again. What the fuck was he talking about? Your father? Before his death, he hadn’t worked in over a decade. He sustained an injury on the assembly line when you were younger and collected compensation cheques for it ever since. You had taken care of yourself for as long as you could remember, working multiple jobs at a time just to help pay the bills. That your late father was anything close to a criminal was almost laughable.

“I honestly think you have the wrong house-”

“Shut the fuck up!” he barked, forcing you into the chair. You kept your hands tightly at your sides, realizing he let the knife drop from your throat momentarily. You used the brief moment of freedom to kick at him with all the strength you possessed. Your foot caught him squarely in his stomach, and he doubled over, clutching his stomach with one hand and slicing the knife in your direction in the other. 

A burst of energy rushed through you, bringing your surroundings into unnaturally sharp focus as you slid off the chair and lunged for the front door. Just as your fingers turned the knob, you felt his hand knot in your hair, pulling you back and slamming you to the floor. For a terrifying moment, you thought you would lose consciousness as the edges of your vision darkened and pain seared through your head. You cried out, looking up through blurred vision preparing to beg for your life when suddenly, it got quiet.

Were you dead?

You blinked through the darkness of the main hall where you laid, the side of your head aching. You could make out the shape of the intruder hovering above you, knife in hand, but instead of stepping towards you, he was backing away. Time seemed to slow as your consciousness faded in and out, your temple pulsing as warm liquid trickled down the side of your face. You raised a shaking hand to your cheek, wiping away the blood, trying your best to breathe steadily. 

Then you heard it. The laugh. A low, childish, unsettling guffaw. 

You had heard it before. Once while you were still a child. It was one of your earliest memories as a kid, the laugh, and who it belonged to. 

You were playing alone in your room, assembling building blocks when you spotted it in the doorway. A large figure with long limbs and a painted face, holding a bright red balloon. It was a clown, although you didn’t know the name for it at the time, and it was smiling at you. 

 _“Hiya.”_ It said. 

You stared at the clown, unblinking. 

“ _You know, it’s not very po-lite to ignore someone.”_ The clown spoke again in a matter-of-factly tone. 

“ _Hello.”_ You managed to utter. The clown had a white face, with tufts of orange hair on either side of his bald head and a big red smile painted over his mouth. It reminded you of the mascot on the side of the Happy Meals your dad would buy for you if you behaved. It was funny looking. It wore a baggy silk suit with ruffles, big orange pom-poms and puffy sleeves. You liked the pom-poms. 

 _“What’s your name?_ ” It asked.

You told it your name, having trouble pronouncing some of the vowels. 

 _“What a pretty name!”_ It laughed, eyes widening. “ _I’m Pennywise the Dancing Clown. And now we’re no longer strangers.”_

You fixated your eyes on the red balloon. It was shiny, and it floated. You lifted both of your arms, making grabbing motions towards it. 

“ _Want the balloon, pretty?”_ Pennywise asked. You nodded and his large grin widened. 

He held the balloon straight out, standing firmly in place, waiting. 

“ _You must come get it then!”_

You let go of the building blocks and stood slowly to your feet. 

“ _Goooood.”_ The clown sang happily. 

You toddled towards him, reaching out to grab the balloon, but before you could reach him-

_“There you are. Do you want to go play outside?”_

Your father appeared in the doorway where the clown stood moments before, his eyebrows raised. 

But where did the clown go? He had vanished as if into thin air. You didn’t understand where he could’ve gone, but you were too young to press further questions. You stretched your arms out and allowed yourself to be picked up by your dad. He led you out of the room, but not before you spotted a shiny red balloon floating ominously at the end of the hallway, unbeknownst to your father. 

You never saw the clown again. Pennywise. You tried asking your father about it years later, but he waved it off as a dream you must’ve had and confused it with real life. But in the twenty-seven years of your life that followed, you never forgot that laugh. Deep, dark, almost as if it was a mix between a hoot and a cry. And now you could hear it again, echoing clearly through your home as you laid on the floor near the front door, clutching your head in pain, a burglar towering over you with a knife. 

You heard the laugh again and then a sharp clatter echoed as something hit the floor. You did your best to squint your eyes and make out the object. It was his knife. You glanced up at the intruder who continued to step further away from you until his back met the door, his hands held up in surrender. His eyes were the only part of his face you could see behind his mask, and they were widened in sheer terror. He let out a desperate cry, shaking his head as he cowered against the door, mumbling incoherent sentences. It was then you realized he wasn’t looking at you, but at something behind you. Something had stepped over your body, heading straight towards the robber who continued to sink against the door in dread of what was to come. You laid still, watching in horror at the violent scene unfolding in front of you.  

The figure, abnormally tall and otherworldly, stood in front of the man holding up his hands, his ten white-gloved fingers spread wide. 

“Can you guess my name?” The figure asked, its voice child-like. 

“What the fuck are you?” The burglar demanded, shrinking beneath the large figure that loomed over him. 

The figure put a finger down. 

“Nine more guesses!” It howled with glee. 

You listened as the burglar listed off known clowns in rapid-fire speed; the figure taking away a finger for each wrong guess. Ronald McDonald. Bozo the Clown. Krusty the Clown. John Wayne Gacy. Pogo. Joker. Patches. Bip the Clown. None of them the right answer. 

The burglar had one guess left; the figure waving a single finger in front of his face. 

“One! Guess! Left! One! Don’t you love numbers? Did you know you only have _ONE_ liver?”

The burglar screamed in agony as the figure's hand broke through his skin, reaching in and ripping out his liver. 

“ _ONE_ Spleen!”

It reached with its other hand into the man's right side, pulling out his spleen. Blood gushed from his wounds and spilled into a puddle on the floor. 

“And… _ONE WHOLE HEART_!”

In a big finale, It used both hands to rip the major organ from the burglar's body, letting the lifeless, dismembered body slump to the floor and into the pool of blood. 

You hadn’t realized you had been screaming the whole time, your voice growing hoarse. Your temple throbbed in pain. Your face sore from sobbing at the unexplained horror you had just witnessed with your own eyes.

You gasped for air, struggling to pull yourself up as the figure began to turn towards you. It bent down menacingly, tilting its large white head as it peered at you. 

The Clown. 

Pennywise. 

“Hiya, Pretty Name. I missed you!” Pennywise cooed, its usual amber eyes now a glowing electric blue as it bared its fangs. You looked at it, your eyes red and swollen from weeping. Then, it began to shriek laughter. 

It kept laughing, echoing through the house as the laugh continued to increase in volume until your ears were ringing and you could swear the ground was shaking. 

“Enough.” You groaned, tears pooling in your eyes, but the howling clown kept on. You shut your eyes tightly, lifting your palms and pressing them to your ears. “ENOUGH!” You bellowed out the order, extending the word out for multiple beats. 

Silence. 

You kept your eyes closed until the room seemed to stop spinning. You steadied your breath, your heart rate still pounding hard in your chest you thought it would burst through your ribcage. You dropped your hands to the floor, the dull ache in your head slowly beginning to subside with the quiet.

You finally opened your eyes and found yourself alone in the front hall of your home. 

No dissected intruder. No pool of blood. 

No Pennywise. 

You should call the police, you thought. _And tell them what?_ With no intruder present or proof of what you had just witnessed, who the fuck would believe you? What did you even see? You laid on the hardwood and let sheer exhaustion wash over you. You had to move, leave, call someone, but your limbs disobeyed. Before you could form another coherent thought, your body collapsed and darkness engulfed you. 

The creature watched from the top of the stairs as you slept, preparing to move your weary body from the floor back into your warm bed, where it would continue watching you. 

_Twenty-seven years._

It had a very long rest, and it was ready to see you again. 

 

Pennywise smiled.


End file.
